


Shot to Pieces

by roswyrm



Series: Deadlands [1]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (1), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Deadlands - Freeform, Fix-It, Gen, HAPPY ENDING JONNY, ITS NOT. HARD., LET THEM BE A MONSTER-KILLING FAMILY YOU SADISTS!!!!!!, LET! THEM! KILL! MONSTERS!!!!!, Team Bonding, Team as Family, listen im in love with them ok, listen not to be tma on main but ONE, of a kind at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 20:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18947893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: There are a lot of things Nathaniel Fletcher knows, and exactly none of them have anything to do with the weird meat monster that's probably going to kill them all.





	Shot to Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> this is for my lovely friend nic, (the-navigator-knows-the-way on tumglr dot hell) who got me reobsessed with deadlands. i'm gonna write MORE in this series, but this is probs gonna be the happiest work bc u know me!!! all abt that angst!!!!!! they don't die, though, and there's gonna be a happy ending, so that's one better than SOMEONE DID. 
> 
>  
> 
> _JONNY._

There are three things that Nathaniel Fletcher knows for sure:  
1\. He’s the best thief.  
2\. Fleeing is always the reasonable choice.  
3\. Zeke is the scariest idiot he’s ever met.

But however scary Zeke may be, and however cowardly Fletcher is, he’s not _stupid._ He’s also not strong, but that doesn’t stop him from grabbing tight to the back of Zeke’s coat and hissing, _“Did you hear that?”_

“Hear what?” Zeke asks, shaking off Fletcher’s grip. Fletcher shushes him, and Zeke glares, (which is _terrifying,_ by the way, having someone who could snap Fletcher in half like a twig glaring down at him with that much malice) but he doesn’t speak. And then the sound comes again. A gun cocking. And another, and another. “We can take—” seven more guns cock, and Zeke falters. For once, he might not shove Fletcher into a terrifying situation that means certain death. 

_Praise Jesus._

Fletcher looks to the kid, who’s still staring up at Zeke like the big idiot is going to be their salvation. Useless, alright. Slowly turning to Carl, Fletcher asks, “What’s the best way to avoid getting trapped in a cave-in?” At which point a stick of _lit dynamite_ slides to a stop at his feet, and Fletcher yelps as he kicks it back the way it came.

Carl announces, “This way!” As much as Fletcher doesn’t want to flee back toward the terrifying meat monster with claws, he doesn’t want to get shot or crushed, either, and he nearly killed the meat monster. He almost crashes into Cigarillo, but he manages to just grab the kid by the wrist and take off running down the cave system instead.

A deafening **BOOM** echoes from behind him and Fletcher runs faster than the rest of his group combined.  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
There are three things Nathaniel Fletcher knows for sure:  
1\. He’s the best thief.  
2\. Fleeing is always the reasonable choice.  
3\. Cigarillo Lee plays a damn good round of poker.

They managed to pick their way out of the cave (over the corpses of about nineteen posse members and the meat-monster with posse-member skin hanging off it) and even without Blackjack, they make a pretty good team.

Not that Fletcher would ever admit that out loud.

Cigarillo keeps winning at cards, which is awful, but less awful than when Carl wins. The old man gives a wheezing cry of victory as he rakes most of Fletcher’s cash towards him. The kid mostly just seems enthused to have won anything at all. Like he hasn’t been cheating up a blue streak. Fletcher knows better than to trust the kind of people that look like Cigarillo, all round cheeks and dimples and _lies._ Not that Fletcher actually caught the kid cheating; he just _knows._ “Reckon we should play again?” Carl asks, already shuffling.

Zeke grumbles something incoherent, and Fletcher is more than happy to just let it go so they can play again and he can win back his cash, but the kid asks, “What was that, Mr. Zeke Sir?” Another thing about Cigarillo. He’s really weird about Zeke. Real deferential-like, as if the big brave idiot was the leader of their little gang instead of just the jerk muscle. Fletcher would like to think of himself as the leader, seeing as he’s the one with all the charisma.

“I said,” growls Zeke, “we got a job tomorrow. I’d put away those cards, I were you.”

Carl sighs and tucks Fletcher’s cash into his pocket. “Alright, let’s pack it up, lads,” he says, and Fletcher has the terrifying realisation that Zeke might have become the de facto leader.

He’s going to be dead before the week is out.  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
There are three things Nathaniel Fletcher knows for sure:  
1\. He’s the best thief.  
2\. Fleeing is always the reasonable choice.  
3\. Carl is a _damn_ good shot.

Fletcher’s certainty in this third thing solidifies when the Sheriff’s chest explodes in a spray of viscera. _“Damnit, Carl!”_ Zeke bellows, but Fletcher just laughs a bit hysterically. They’re gonna get chased down again, he’s sure of it, but that was _amazing._

Carl continues to jeer at the deputy, and by the time they ride off, cash in hand, Fletcher is still giggling. “I think I’ll get a dress,” he says, and no one makes fun of him for it. “I think I’ll get _two_ dresses!” He and Cigarillo are stuck on the same horse, now, almost by design. Cigarillo can’t kill the poor thing if his main job is clinging to the cash and to Fletcher’s waist, and Fletcher won’t forget to grab his horse if he’s got to give the kid a ride.

“We gotta get away, first,” aforementioned kid reminds him, squeaking by his ear, and Fletcher spurs his horse forward. Hell yes, they’re going to get away. All four of them are gonna ride off into the sunset, bags of money in hand, and Fletcher is going to buy as many goddamn dresses as he wants. “Fletcher, gimme your gun, they’re gaining on us!” Fletcher hands it to him easily, directing Sacramento with one hand. The gun goes off twice, and the kid whoops loudly. “Bullseye!” Cigarillo crows. 

Fletcher is having the time of his _life._  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
Fletcher fucking hates his life:  
1\. He’s a good thief.  
2\. Fleeing is always the reasonable choice.  
3\. Zeke doesn’t trust him on watch, so he’s stuck next to the big guy.

Ugh.

Fletcher plays solitaire with Cigarillo’s cards because he doesn’t want to play anything with Zeke, especially not in the rain.

The cold rain.

The cold, wet rain.

_Ugh._

The moon is high up in the sky and passing train cars rattle above them, meaning only brief bits of drenching downpour gets on them. Fletcher loses spectacularly to himself, and he mutters angrily as he reshuffles and starts again. The dim light of the fire is more than mostly dead by now, so Fletcher stands up to renew it. “Don’t,” Zeke says, “that’d alert anyone lookin’ for us.”

Fletcher grumbles some more, but quietly, and he doesn’t look at Zeke as he does it. He starts packing up the cards because as stupid and brave (the worst type of brave, too, the type of brave that gets everyone killed) as Zeke might be, he knows what he’s talking about more often than not. Fletcher can’t see very well, but he still manages to slip the pack of cards back into Cigarillo’s pocket exactly as he found them. He sits back down a decent distance away from Zeke and stares off at the black horizon, twiddling his thumbs. “What’s your policy on questions,” Zeke rumbles, and Fletcher blinks over at him.

He repeats, “What’s my _policy?”_ Zeke says a lot of weird things, but usually, Fletcher has at least some frame of reference for what the hell he’s talking about. This, though – this he doesn’t have any damn idea about.

Zeke nods somberly. Like this is a serious matter. Zeke does almost everything like it’s a serious matter, though, so it’s nothing new. “If anyone wants to know somethin’ about me, they can ask. What about you?” Fletcher doesn’t know exactly what it is about Zeke’s unflinching eye contact that makes him so off-kilter, but it certainly _does_ make him feel off-kilter, so Fletcher looks at the ground instead and pretends he can’t feel those piercing black eyes on him.

“I, uh– w-well, I mean, no one ever wants to know anything about me.”

Zeke’s still staring at him; Fletcher knows it. “I wanna know somethin’,” Zeke says, and Fletcher suddenly wants to wake up Carl. The old man’s basically brain-dead, and he doesn’t know anything at all, ever, but he’s also the only one dumb enough to stand up to Zeke if he decides to beat the shit out of Fletcher. Or maybe not. Maybe it doesn’t matter who else is awake, and Fletcher’s gonna have to flee from another gang because of his stupid skirts.

Fetcher gulps. He stammers, “You, uh– what d’you want to know?” He’s scared out of his mind, but he still turns to meet eyes with Zeke. Show of bravery makes people all the more surprised when you turn and flee.

Zeke’s face doesn’t give anything away. There’s no sneer of disgust when he asks, “You queer?” He’s still staring Fletcher down, and Fletcher’s resolve to stare back quavers.

“I,” he sputters, looking down at the mud, “well, that’s – just because I like _dresses_ doesn’t mean I like _men.”_ It’s not the answer to the question that he asked, but Zeke is probably too dumb to pick up on that.

Zeke grunts in understanding. When Fletcher peeks up at him, he’s staring off into the distance. Fletcher looks back to his hands real quick and starts twiddling his thumbs again. Only another two hours of this to go. Christ, Fletcher’s going to steal Carl’s pipe if it’ll make the time pass faster. He’d rather hack up both lungs than deal with this silence. But then Zeke readjusts, and Fletcher can feel him staring once more. “There somethin’ wrong with liking men?” Zeke asks, and his voice is level even as it threatens violence.

Fletcher tenses. “No! No, nothing… nothing wrong with that. At all. Nope.” The big guy snorts, like a bull or something, and then it’s just silence again. It takes Fletcher a long moment to work up the courage to nudge Zeke and laugh, “What a pair we are—”

“We’re not a pair.”

“Nope, no, we are not! Okay.”  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
There are three things that Nathaniel Fletcher knows for sure:  
1\. He’s a good thief.  
2\. Fleeing is always the reasonable choice.  
3\. Carl is long since past his golden days.

They’re sitting in a saloon, waiting for Zeke and Cigarillo (who follows the big guy around like a damn puppy) to get back with their drinks and their dinner, when Carl thunks into Fletcher’s shoulder, already snoring. Fletcher tenses.

Waking Carl up is damn near impossible, and they’ve all learned this the hard way.

So Fletcher, because really, it’s the only thing he _can_ do, slowly rests his head on top of the old man’s. And Fletcher isn’t sentimental, or anything. He doesn’t really like these folks, they’re just useful, and Carl is easier to deal with when he’s gotten a full night’s sleep. And Fletcher isn’t reveling in the not-even-actually trust, or in the only-maybe-if-you-squint show of affection.

Nathaniel Fletcher doesn’t care about either of those things, no siree.

He doesn’t feel at all giddy about the display of someone (that he only mostly tolerates) not completely hating his guts.  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
There are three things that Nathaniel Fletcher knows for sure:  
1\. He’s a good thief.  
2\. Fleeing is always the reasonable choice.  
3\. Cigarillo Lee is the _worst._

If the kid sets his gun on Fletcher’s shoulder again, he’s gonna lose an eye. Or Fletcher’s gonna lose his hearing. He can’t move to put his finger in his ear because the dead ‘un is slowly getting closer to their hiding spot, and any more noise might alert it. 

(It’s the only thing that stops him from very vindictively whispering _“Ca-caw.”)_

Cigarillo aims carefully, and just as the dead ‘un sees them and opens its mouth to howl, the kid shoots it in the forehead. Fletcher yips in pain when the gun goes off _right next to his ear,_ and Cigarillo apologizes profusely as they stumble out of the alleyway they’d shoved themselves into. “Ca- _caw,”_ Fletcher points out through the ringing in his ears, glaring fiercely at the eyes he knows are hidden behind the kid’s mop of shaggy blond hair. Except suddenly Cigarillo has two arms wrapped around him and.

Uh.  
That’s. 

Uhhhhh.

Jesus, when’s the last time someone willingly touched Fletcher and they weren’t threatening him? 

He hugs the kid back probably too quickly and definitely too tightly. “Okay,” Cigarillo says after a minute, and Fletcher lets go, taking a quick step back. “We should go find the others, right?” Fletcher nods and slicks a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, let’s– let’s do that.” The kid beams at him as he reloads his gun, and Fletcher checks his derringer so that he doesn’t have to look at Cigarillo’s face.  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
There are three things that Nathaniel Fletcher knows for sure:  
1\. He’s a pretty good thief.  
2\. Fleeing is always the reasonable choice.  
3\. Zeke doesn’t completely hate him.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still flinch when a big hand settles on the back of his neck. Months have passed since the first time Zeke did this, pushing him down the cave toward certain death, but it still dregs up terror and the need to flee from deep in his gut. Zeke doesn’t say anything, which is almost worse, but it gives Fletcher a minute to work through things.

And then Zeke starts scratching his thumb through the fuzz of hair at the nape of Fletcher’s neck, and he realizes _this isn’t a threat._ Neither of them really acknowledges it, and Fletcher keeps sipping at his (absolutely disgusting) coffee as the big guy’s hand slowly warms up the back of his neck. “You’re not half bad when you’re not bein’ a sniveling coward,” Zeke tells him, but Fletcher can see out of the corner of his eye that the big guy is staring at the fire they set up to cook breakfast. Too embarrassed to look at Fletcher directly.

Fletcher smirks into his tin of coffee. “You’re pretty decent when you’re not being an idiot,” he answers. The hand on the back of his neck tightens considerably, and Fletcher squeaks. “That was a joke! Just a joke! I’m sure you’re very smart, please don’t kill me!”

And then Zeke _laughs._

It’s almost scarier than the dead ‘uns and the law and the occasional skinned-raw combined. Zeke claps him on the back, and Fletcher jolts forward, coffee sloshing out of his tin. Fletcher looks up at the big guy, eyes wide with fear and worry, and Zeke grins back. His teeth are crooked but white, and one of the incisors is missing. “Funny, too,” he rumbles, still smiling, and Fletcher’s pretty sure he’s having a stroke. He has to be hallucinating this, right? Zeke doesn’t entirely hate him, but this is– Fletcher’s definitely hallucinating. Zeke’s hand stays on his back, between his shoulder blades, and Fletcher’s a little too scared to make him move it.

(Also.)

(Not that he’d ever admit it.)

(But Fletcher likes it when people touch him without being mad.)

Carl complains about the cold getting into his old bones, and Cigarillo asks a bunch of questions about their plans, and the space between Fletcher’s shoulders isn’t completely frigid.


End file.
